Breaking my "pot" dependence

"Shower" time!

There’s this game I play almost daily with my water heater, Takagi. It goes like this:

I flip the shower faucet to the hottest setting, check that the temperature is to my liking and shed my clothes. Then it’s Takagi’s turn. He dispatches liquid icicles through the showerhead to pierce my goose-pimpled flesh as I step into the tub. My turn again. I jump backward, curse and frantically grasp for the faucet, doing my best to sacrifice no more than shivering shins to the frigid spray as I struggle to cut off the flow. Then I scramble from the tub.

The rest of the game usually involves me, wearing nothing but a towel, stomping from kitchen sink to guest shower to master sink and back again as I test every water source for the slightest hint of warmth. Surely the exact combination of time, pressure and celestial alignment will finally equal hot water, and I can shower and make it to my appointment or job interview on time. But Takagi, curse him, always wins.

First World problem, right? I’m lucky to have access to hot water – however intermittently -- at all. Yesterday, I surrendered to that conniving water heater and bathed with a 5-quart pot of water boiled on the stove. Even as I stood shivering over this blessedly steaming pot in my tub, I realized how fortunate I was to have the ability to remedy the situation through electricity. And, if I’m being truthful, washing a la pot wasn’t so bad; I simply dipped a washcloth into the water, added a bit of soap and attacked the important bits (pits and parts). Dumping the remaining water over my body in one giant gush was borderline luxurious. Later that night, I debated reusing the pot to cook ravioli but thought better of it. First, perhaps a run through the dishwasher was in order.

Evil Takagi

I didn’t always live this way. When Matt and I first moved into this adorable, refurbished 1940’s cottage in the San Francisco suburbs, the supply of skin-reddening water seemed never ending; no matter how many back-to-back showers we took, the tankless water heater magically accommodated our demands for more. After growing up with a younger sister who required half-hour-long showers (to wash what, exactly?! I don’t think Hailey knows what a skin roll looks like) and could only be coaxed from the bathroom once our home’s hot water tank was exhausted (or by repeat flushing of the toilet), possessing such control over our hot water god felt otherworldly. Matt and I didn’t abuse our power (there’s a drought on, after all), but we certainly did appreciate it.

But then the dry season arrived and the cottage’s irrigation system switched on. Apparently, Takagi mandates a certain level of water pressure before he will engage. If the pressure is temporarily allocated to the lawn, Takagi refuses to perform until the timed cycle ends, our landlords told us.

This seemed easy enough to fix; Matt and I simply needed to adjust the sprinkler system so the various zones activated in the middle of the night, when we were unlikely to require a shower. Unfortunately, we neglected to consider the irrigation-happy neighbors behind us and how our properties, once united as one, share a water supply. 

Since the summer, Matt and I have waged epic battles against evil Takagi. We curse and bump around in the attic to beg an audience and reason with him, a fruitless endeavor considering he was manufactured in Japan and speaks only Japanese. Takagi’s digital display screen is basically a jumble of winking emojis and ninja nonsense. He simply can’t be reasoned with. And so we stomp around the house dressed only in towels and sometimes, when we’re especially aggravated, nothing at all. Perhaps our naked fury will scare Takagi into submission. At the very least, it’s bound to scare the neighbors.

I now realize I’ve been lazy about this whole Takagi situation. I must keep a running log of his misbehavior so I can prove it’s not connected to our sprinklers, now deactivated. And now that it’s raining again (quite substantially, I might add), I think it’s time I finally spoke to those neighbors and asked them what gives? It seems as if no matter what time I attempt to shower, the water pressure is drawn somewhere other than my shower faucet. How is that possible? Nobody waters the lawn that much.

But first, a shower. I see my pot of water has reached a nice boil.

Christmas trees: Wanted dead or alive?

Last year's tree

I don’t often watch “Shark Tank,” the ABC reality program in which aspiring entrepreneurs attempt to secure funding, because the potential investors are often unnecessarily mean, and this makes me uncomfortable. But “Shark Tank” happened to be on after “Jeopardy” one night, and I watched an episode in which a Manhattan Beach man pitched his idea for a potted holiday tree rental business. He called his company “The Living Christmas Company.” I loved it. But more importantly, billionaire Mark Cuban loved it. He invested $150,000 for 40 percent of the business. You can learn more about the clever concept here.

I’m not a tree hugger per se, but I have mixed feelings about traditional Christmas trees. I do enjoy the smell of fresh evergreen. And decorating a tree has a way of formally ushering in the holiday season. Of course, after just a few weeks of merriment, a living beauty 10 years or more in the making becomes mulch.

Throughout my childhood, my family often traveled during the holiday season, so we seldom purchased a tree. For a few years, we resorted to lugging around a 5-foot-tall plastic replica so thin it appeared fashioned from giant green pipe cleaners. It consisted of three sections stacked together and when held upside down, the “branches” of each section collapsed like an umbrella to facilitate easy storage. One year, the Christmas my family road tripped to North Carolina with my dad’s brother’s family, the rubbery ficus tree gracing our rented cabin became the impromptu holiday centerpiece. We children composed (and enthusiastically sang) a special song for that tree. It went something like this:

“Oh, ficus tree, oh, ficus tree,
Your leaves are so plastic-y.
Dinosaurs died to make your trunk,
Oh, thank goodness they didn’t flunk.”

If my family purchased a live tree, it would be one of those foot-tall potted ones -- the saddest, most pathetic tree the home improvement store carried. Like many kids raised on “Charlie Brown” holiday television specials, my sister and I were naturally drawn to such trees; like neglected puppies, they needed our love more than the full, healthy ones did. And so we’d shower these spindly specimens in affection haphazardly assembled from Cheerios and Froot Loops and ugly ornaments Hailey and I shaped from whatever art supplies happened to be on hand. Sometimes, when we felt especially creative, we’d toss on garland fashioned from toilet paper. Yes, it was simply magical.  After the holidays, we took the tree home and planted it in the yard so we could watch it grow. One such tree, mistakenly situated by my parents’ front door, grew so large that it threatened to uproot the front steps and so, sadly, had to be cut down. 

A salvaged tree goes up in flames

As teens, my Lake Worth, Fla., cousins had their own unique holiday tree tradition: Starting on the day after Christmas, they climbed into a golf cart and patrolled their neighborhood for trees kicked to the curb. These they dragged into their backyard and “recycled” by torching them in the enormous fire pit. No, this wasn’t exactly “green,” and it probably wasn’t even legal. Nor was it responsible. Not so long ago, the bonfire got a tad out of hand, and an overhanging Royal Poinciana tree crisped. But at least those poor, discarded trees brought a second round of joy to the young and young at heart. Like heathens, my cousins watched the hungry flames lick and devour the dry, cracking needles. If Hailey and I happened to be around, we’d happily join them. Pyromania, as everyone knows, is contagious.

I admit to being a certifiably "Scooged" adult; I am annoyed by the increasing commercialization of Christmas, and so I’ve been plugging my ears against the incessant melody of holiday music since October, when most of the local stores began pumping it from their speakers. Matt and I have neglected to purchase a tree – even a potted one -- or hang holiday decorations. Our families swore off gifts for everyone but the children because, frankly, we don’t need anything and because we stubbornly refuse to be swept up in all this shopping mayhem (not in a million years could you drag me to the mall right now). While this all sounds quite pompous, I can’t express enough what a relief it is not to worry about gifts this year, to know we’re spending our money on the most important thing to us: traveling to visit family. I'm not purporting to be better (and certainly not more pious) than traditional holiday revelers -- just maybe more frugal.  

Yesterday, Matt told me about the 20-foot Christmas trees corralled in the Camino de Real tree lots he passes during his daily work commute. I was shocked. How much would a tree like that cost? Who had room in their house for such a tree? And, most perplexing, how on earth would they transport it home?

I searched for Matt’s behemoth Christmas trees today while driving past the same lots, and I think he must be mistaken; What he thought were giant, post-chopping block firs are actually still-living pines framing the railroad tracks. Somehow, that knowledge made me happy. Bah humbug.

Skunk-ageddon

Most of us have, at one time or another, passed through a putrescent puff of skunk funk during a stroll in our neighborhood or perhaps a hike in the woods.

“Phew!” we may say to ourselves, noses twitching every which way. We hold our breath and pick up the pace until we’ve safely escaped the almost visible boundaries of the scent.

But when detonated from within closed quarters, skunk spray has the astounding ability to permeate through solid doors, tunnel through air vents and peel paint from walls. It’s powerful enough to make eyes tear up, as my fellow Wildlife Department volunteer Jennalee discovered on Wednesday.

Jennalee’s eyes began weeping not long after she and I commenced our vigil outside the double doors of the exam room.  I’d like to report we were engaged in some sort of important scientific observation of the activity underway within, but we were simply overcome by a perverse curiosity, something akin to rubbernecking on the highway. Well, at least I was.

Like fearless first responders sacrificing themselves to save others, Ashley and Gary had charged into that odiferous exam room to confront the sick skunk inside. Jennalee and I watched, mouths closed, as Gary held down the great beast and Ashley administered fluids. A healthy skunk would have fought and sprayed at our heroes, but this one simply leaked and oozed into the towel placed beneath him. Even from the opposite side of the doors, Jennalee and I could taste skunk funk on our tongues.

“Get the coffee in the locker!” Gary said.

Oh crap. He was speaking to us.

“Do you know what he’s talking about?” I asked Jennalee. She did.

But the coffee grounds kept in the supply closet for the express purpose of absorbing skunk stench were exhausted. So I booked it to the employee break room and ransacked the cabinets there. Armed with two single-serving packets of Colombian blend (fully caffeinated – decaf just wasn’t going to cut it), I returned to the double doors, sucked in a deep breath and pushed through.

Confined within that 8 by 10-foot room, the fumes were positively toxic and thick enough to induce coughing. It was the kind of stench you imagine you can actually see, squiggly green vapors suspended in the air. I’ve smelled burning corpses before. This was worse.

“Holy crap, that stinks!” I said, a tad louder than the situation called for. Our heroes shushed me, presumably to spare the patient any embarrassment.

In a motion not unlike ripping a pin from a grenade, I tore open the coffee packets and dumped the contents onto a large metal pan. Then I retreated.

“There’s a skunk in recovery,” I texted Matt. “Worst smell ever.”

“Poor skunk,” he texted back. “What’s wrong with it?”

“They don’t know. He’s just not very mobile. I think they’re giving him fluids. Ashley and Gary are going to reek afterward.”

Eager for a breath of fresh air, I decided this was an ideal time to visit the shelter gift shop and buy a kennel key from the cashier there. Business had been slow, and she seemed eager to chat.

“You’re in Wildlife, so you’ll appreciate this,” she said. “My husband fancies himself a wildlife photographer. He especially likes birds. So he drove 150 miles alone the other day to get these shots at a park near Gilroy.”

She handed me her smartphone.

“Just scroll down,” she said. “They’re long-eared owls.”

“Great shots. Where did you say he took these?”

The woman’s nose twitched.

“Have you been hanging out with a skunk?” she said, gasping for air and grasping for her phone.

I bent my head and directed my own nose to the collar of my favorite jacket.

“Oh man!” I moaned. I expedited my purchase and vacated the gift shop before the cashier asphyxiated.

Back in Wildlife, Ashley and Gary had settled the skunk into an outdoor kennel. His stench, however, still lingered throughout the department hallways. It would remain so for days.

“I got my key, but the cashier says I stink too,” I told Ashley. “So, how do I get rid of the smell? Just shower and shampoo and wash my clothes a few times?”

Ashley opened her eyes wide, smiled and shook her head back and forth.

“What? What does that mean? Am I going to have to burn my clothes?!”

“No, you’ll be fine,” she said, laughing. “Your car’s going to stink, though. My car always stinks after.”

“But I’m spending all next week in my car!”

“Well, maybe use your husband’s car.”

“We have just one car.”

“Oh. Good luck.”

I called my mom on my way home. She thought the situation was hilarious. And the fact she thought the situation was hilarious reminded me of the psychological torture she and my father subjected me to as a child.

While my parents, supposedly impartial role models, adorably referred to my younger sister as “Mouse” or “Sweet Pea” or “Twinkle Toes,” they called me “The Beast,” “The Godmother” and, worst of all, “Stinky.” And I was not, to the best of my knowledge, a dirty or disgusting kid! Nevertheless, my parents solidified my association with filth and putrescence throughout my childhood. When I was 8, they returned from a trip to present Hailey with a plush opossum (who doesn’t love a baby opossum?!) and me with a skunk, which I still own and which scares the bejesus out of my cats. During my twelfth year, my parents somehow managed to intercept my request for the nickname that would appear on the back of my youth soccer jersey and informed the coach it should read “Pig Pen.” And so it did.  You can imagine what a boon this was to my ranking on the middle school popularity scale.

Years of therapy have softened the bitter sting of “Stinky.”  I think saddling Matt with the pet name has also contributed to my improved self-image (In exchange, I’ve agreed to endure the slightly less-offensive “Smelly). But I’m still sensitive to association with the fetid. So in the aftermath of “Skunk-ageddon,” I’ve showered twice and twice laundered my clothes. I think I’m officially stench-free, but as is commonly the case with B.O., it’s difficult to know for sure without shoving an armpit into a loved one’s face. Stinky should be home from work soon. I’ll make him smell me.

David Sedaris signed my book – with a bloody knife

The crowd at Zellerbach Hall for Saturday's David Sedaris reading 

To prepare for meeting my literary hero, I showered, dabbed on make-up and trimmed my eyebrows. I also took an eraser to the “$6.95” penciled into the endpaper of his book.

“I don’t want him to know I bought the book second-hand,” I explained to Matt.

The truth is, that hardback copy of “Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim” is the first David Sedaris book I’ve ever owned; I’ve “read” all of humorist’s bestselling essay collections by listening to him read them to me through library-owned audiobooks. So months ago, after I purchased tickets to hear Sedaris deliver a reading at Berkeley’s Zellerbach Hall, I began scouring bookstores for a used copy my hero could actually sign. Sentimentality steered me toward “Dress Your Family,” the book that introduced me to Sedaris’ acid wit in 2005. I even sprang for the hardback edition.

I’m never early for anything, but I drove Matt and I to Berkeley six hours ahead of Saturday’s 8 p.m. reading, one of 47 engagements Sedaris had scheduled for a 49-day book tour. No, I wasn’t obsessed to the point of insisting we spend the entire afternoon loitering outside Zellerbach Hall; I wanted to thoroughly explore this beautiful college town. If we happened to “randomly” spot Sedaris dining in a restaurant or polishing off his holiday shopping on College or Shattuck Avenue, so be it.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” I told Matt through a mouthful of Cheese Board Pizza Collective pizza. “He could be just wandering around here.”

“I don’t even know what he looks like,” Matt said. He retrieved his iPhone and Google Image-d Sedaris’ name.

“Well, he’s sort of balding, and kind of short,” I said.

Matt displayed a photograph of Sedaris holding an umbrella, an expression somewhere between amusement and weariness playing across the writer’s face.

“Yeah, but he’s a little older now.”

Maroon Shirt

From our standing room only dining position outside the pizzeria, we commenced a game of selecting random pedestrians and saying, in a mock-hushed voice, “Look! Is that him?!” (By “we” I actually mean just “me” and most of the people I singled out seemed to be UC students of the Asian persuasion – or bums.) But then we wandered over to Zellerbach Hall to scope out the scene before the program’s start, and I became convinced I really did see Sedaris in the lobby.

“See that balding guy standing behind the table with the books on it? In the maroon shirt? I think that’s him.”

“Why would he be here four hours before the show starts?” my ever-practical husband asked.

“I don’t know, but that kind of looks like him – and that guy seated beside him, that’s probably Hugh.”

I said “Hugh” as if Sedaris’ long-time partner, Hugh Hamrick, happened to be a friend of a friend we were meeting for brunch.

Before long, I had tiptoed up to the lobby’s locked glass doors to stare at Maroon Shirt, my nose all but pressed to the glass. Was that really him? My hero? He seemed taller than I imagined.

I was so engrossed with observing Maroon Shirt that I failed to notice the badged auditorium employee observing me from the other side of the door. She propped open the door but no more than the few millimeters required to make herself heard.

“Can I help you?” the young woman asked. 

“Um, yes,” I stammered. “Is there, um, a public restroom around here?”

“Try the Student Center, to the left,” she said and closed the door.

Matt and I made use of the facilities and then continued our stroll up and down College Avenue. We returned to the hall at 7 p.m., an hour before the show, and discovered, to my delight, that the line containing five book-holding bibliophiles wasn’t the queue for entrance but the gateway to securing a pre-performance book signature. Two silver-haired matrons – the stereotypical kind everyone associates with performing arts usher-hood -- were handing out pens and custom post-it notes featuring Sedaris’ name beside a picture of an owl, a nod to his latest essay collection, “Let’s Explore Diabetes With Owls.”

“Write your name on the sticky so he knows how to spell it,” one of the matrons instructed. Expecting my thus-far good fortune to evaporate, I decided to quiz the ushers.

“So, is he actually in there? Now? Are we really going to meet him?” I asked.

“Yes, of course,” one said, and turned to pass out another pen.

“I thought she was going to say they wanted us to write our name down so they could take the book, have him sign it, and then return it to us,” I whispered to Matt. “So, do you think I should have him make it out to ‘Megan’ or ‘Megan V. Winslow?’”

“I think just ‘Megan’ is enough.”

Post-it in place, I began flipping through my book’s pages.

“What are you doing now?” Matt asked.

“I want to make sure I know the name of my favorite essay in case he asks me,” I said. “Actually, you should read this. It’s really funny.”

I watched Matt read “Us and Them,” waiting for him to laugh. Or just smile. When he failed on both accounts, I began watching Jessica, the student teacher-turned book signing line bouncer.

I noticed she delivered the same directive before escorting each group of four inside the auditorium and around the corner to disappear under the stairs in some sort of alcove, presumably where Sedaris was ensconced.

"Remember: no photos,” she said. “Don't even hold up your phone as if you're going to take a picture. His demands.”

“I think he wrote an essay about that – hating having his picture taken,” I informed one of the matrons.

“Oh really?”

Matt and I were now at the front of the outside line, and I could clearly see Maroon Shirt, still loitering behind the book table. Two facts suddenly made me question my earlier Sedaris identification: The first was that Maroon Shirt’s table was positioned far from the sacred alcove beneath the stairs; The second was Maroon Shirt no longer wore his maroon shirt. He had shed it to reveal a “Moe’s Book Store” T-shirt, the kind an employee representing the local provider of performance-related materials might wear. So this wasn’t Sedaris, and he was no longer worthy of my attentions. Instead, I studied Jessica and the auditorium staff member whispering in her ear. It was the same woman who had shooed me off to the bathroom. 

“I see,” Jessica said. She turned to Matt and I and opened her mouth to speak. My face fell.

“What?” Jessica asked me.

“I thought you were going to say the book signing is over,” I told her, crestfallen.

“No, I was going to say ‘It’s your turn.’ How many people are in your group?”

I could hear Sedaris’ voice as Matt and I rounded the auditorium stairs. It was the same soothing voice I had heard speaking through my car stereo during countless road trips across Florida. The same nasally tone that always interrupted the fluidity of my iPod music playlist whenever I selected “shuffle.” The same snarky delivery I forced my parents to listen to and laugh with whenever we happened to be in the same vehicle. Now that voice emanated from a pint-sized man seated behind a table strewn with colored Sharpie markers. He wore a tie and a button-down sweater, a combination that reminded me of my 11th grade math teacher (I couldn’t tell at the time, but he was also wearing culottes breeches, another wardrobe choice reminiscent of Mr. Dougherty). Sedaris was chatting to a group of middle-aged men, explaining how much he dislikes being interrupted by fans while eating in restaurants. 

“Quick! Is there anything hanging out of my nose?” I asked Matt. “I feel like my nose is running.” I flared my nostrils so he could get a good look.

“No, you’re good.”

Then there was a trio of giggly Berkeley co-eds.

“It’s nice he’s taking time to speak to each fan,” I reflected.

Then us. I took a deep breath and handed my hero my copy of “Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim.”

"Your name must be...,” He said, slowly opening the book cover as if the name might magically come to him in the seconds before he consulted the post-it note. I remembered him describing this trick in one of his essays. But he could not guess my name. He opened the book and read the post-it. “…Megan. Megan, have we ever met before?"

"No, but I'm a huge fan,” I gushed. I felt my lips begin to quiver.

But Sedaris was no longer looking at me. Instead, he was doodling on the title page of my book, selecting first the black Sharpie and then the brown.

"Megan, don't ever send me a book in the mail to sign,” Sedaris said. “You know what I do with books people send me in the mail to sign? I throw them away."

My eyes grew big. Had I ever subconsciously mailed him a book to sign? Dear God, I hoped not.

"I'll be sure to spread the word." Matt said, laughing nervously.

"Is that a knife?" I asked, mesmerized as Sedaris wielded the gray Sharpie to color in the blade. The two-dimensional weapon appeared to pierce the printed “i” and “d” of his first name. 

"Yes, it's the knife I would use to stab the people who send me books to sign."

“Oh.”

"And some people send them directly to my house -- with American stamps. That doesn't do me any good in England."

“No, I bet it doesn’t,” Matt agreed.

I decided to change the subject.

"We've spent all day wandering around Berkeley hoping to see you in a restaurant or something."

Oh dear, I thought. That surely sounded stalker-ish.

“I was in San Francisco, spending money."

“Oh.”

Sedaris put the finishing touches on his knife – a bloody drip in red Sharpie – and I realized our 2-minute conversation was drawing to an end. 

“I just wanted to tell you that you've inspired me to become a humor essayist,” I babbled. “So maybe. One day..." 

I trailed off, leaving a pregnant pause ripe for a line of encouragement that never came. Instead, Sedaris squinted up at me and smiled. I knew this was my signal to go. So I went.

“Could you tell I was flustered?” I asked Matt later as I drained a glass of overpriced performing arts merlot. “I didn't know what to say when he started talking about the knife.”

“What could have possibly inspired him to say that?” he said, laughing.

“I don’t know, but I guess it makes people remember him.” 

“Oh, he was unforgettable.”

We finished our drinks and found our mezzanine seats. The show was about to start.

A letter from the future?

Matt collected the mail today.

“A very strange letter came for you,” he said. “It’s addressed to you in what looks like your handwriting, and there’s no return address. Could it be a letter from yourself in the future?”

My eyes lit up.

“A letter from the future? Oh boy!”

No, I didn’t actually believe some Future Me had reached through the fabric of time to deliver a life-altering message to Present Me (“Don’t drink that expired soy milk.” or maybe “Remember to floss our teeth.”) But there was always the very-real possibility that Past Me mailed a letter to Present Me to “call dibs” on some kick-ass invention idea. I would need to carefully analyze this envelope before I broke that virginal seal. I made a beeline for the kitchen table and the pile of mail discarded there.

Yep, that was definitely my handwriting. And I remembered the stamp, one from the United States Post Office’s “Go Green” collection. I purchased a sheet of the eco-friendly stamps a few months ago. “Fix water leaks,” this one instructed. It featured a drawing of a hand twisting a water faucet handle.

When it comes to postage, I prefer pretty over practical and so typically purchase the special edition stamp sheets instead of the rolls containing the generic flag motif.  And when the special edition sheets contain various different designs, I subdivide further by designating the “boring” ones for envelopes containing bill payments (surely the artistry of a primo design would be wasted on whichever frazzled accounts receiving processor received it). So could this be a bill -- billed to myself?

Still holding out on the invention scenario, I snapped pictures of the front and back of the envelope to protect the integrity of my intellectual property. Then I took a deep breath and ripped open the envelope.

Inside was a hand-written note from River Styx, a St. Louis-based literary journal. I suddenly recalled mailing my “Deer Battle” essay for consideration for the journal’s forthcoming “Revenge” issue. A self-addressed envelope had been required should the writer desire a formal rejection.

“Megan, I’m sorry we couldn’t take your story. Competition for the Revenge issue has been tough. Thanks for giving us a shot. – KL.”

Darn.

Yes, rejection sucks. But at least K.L. – whoever he (or she) is -- took the time to send that note. It’s nice to know someone read my submission, and perhaps it even made this K.L. person laugh. Perhaps he even noticed the envelope’s postage stamp.